Mr. Popularity

Just as in days of old, the resting position of my hand on the keyboard naturally conforms to the QWER required for at-any-moment League of Legends play. It’s got that kinda cats paw thing dialed in and I’m ready to hit them in my warded brush with my E, pop W on my way in, and Q anyone else fancy enough to remain. I don’t give a shit, that’s fine. I can dig two holes.

I have no idea what’s going on around me in the physical world. It’s just not where I spend my time, I’m sorry; there isn’t much to recommend it. Grabarr often gets mad at me because this policy results in various accretions. Nor is Kiko enthusiastic about my heaps, which I think evoke the natural, organic industry of a desert termite mound. I’d prefer if we didn’t discuss the ossified lo mein. That’s neither here nor there. Plus it’s fucking gross, and mars the carefully curated narrative. I want to be the weirdo with the novel observations, not the weirdo with a septic wound from a super sharp noodle.

Until the piles grow so large that I might be crushed beneath them, they don’t require any cycles. I’m open to the idea that these things have a psychic weight I’m not aware of, that they thicken my cognition just by being there, which is sometimes called the Brenna Hypothesis. By me. Because that’s what Brenna always says.

So, those are the real things. But if you orient your sight orbs to the bottom of the second panel, you can plainly see Gmail is there. Gmail! Because while I have an iPhone, my device is utterly colonized by Google; most of the time I spend with the device - from the browser, to the mail client, to the maps - are all owned by another company. I can’t delete the Mail app, or I would! I sent an image file like a thousand fucking years ago because that’s the only option from Photos, and now I have whatever you would call the opposite of stigmata.